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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26722696">things that go whump in the night 3: 3rd time's the whump</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Ash/pseuds/Miss_Ash'>Miss_Ash</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>things that go whump in the night [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, Here we fucking go, Hurt/Comfort, Whumptober 2020, hell yeah, it's whumping season friends</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:28:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,892</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26722696</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Ash/pseuds/Miss_Ash</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's that time of year again! Herein lies my collection of as many whumptober prompts as I manage to fill. Summaries, ratings, and warnings at the beginning of each chapter. Stay safe, stay sane, and happy whumping!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>things that go whump in the night [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1501406</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>MFMMwhumptober2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>things that go whump in the night 3: 3rd time's the whump</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Friends, Romans, Adventuresses. It's been a year. Unfortunately, despite having more time than I could reasonably deal with on my hands earlier in 2020, I now find myself working 7 days a week, right as my favourite time of year has rolled around. As such this may not quite be the Whumptober I have tried to make it for the last two years - but Whumptober is still my Christmas, and I wasn't about to miss it - so we'll just see how we go. I may end up filling prompts with more ficlet length pieces, I may end up just filling fewer overall, or I'll just flat out cheat by combining more together. Hopefully I'll still manage to torture our favourites somewhat equally. </p><p>As always, please proceed with self care and caution - unhappy endings will be marked with an (A). </p><p>
  <span class="small">And a quick note if anyone here has been reading FtW: I'm so sorry for the lack of updates, time and muse have not been my friends, I am hoping whumptober might serve to kickstart my brain so I can get that finished off soonish, too.</span>
</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 1 - Hanging + Day 17 - Wrongfully Accused, <b>T</b></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You left me hanging.”</p><p>Jack blinks, wondering if he’s hearing right, wondering if – after so many years and so many horrors witnessed, after the horror that has been this case – he might finally have cracked and lost what remains of his sanity. </p><p>His eyes open again to the feet that sway, absent of any life now the twitching has ceased, suspended in the air in front of him. </p><p>She had taken it boldly, he has to admit, though – however brave the face that takes it – death comes with little dignity in the end. </p><p>“Jack?”</p><p>He swallows. Now, he thinks to himself, really is not the time for this; whatever ‘this’ might transpire to be. </p><p>“<em>Jack</em>.”</p><p>Apparently he has no choice in the matter, however, and so he turns, ready to face insanity. </p><p>*</p><p>
  <em> “Phryne Fisher?” </em>
</p><p><em> Jack looks up before she even does herself. He knows the voice, knows the </em> tone<em>, and it somehow isn’t a surprise to him to see the Commissioner there, flanked by uniforms, Darby’s ready in one of their eagerly conforming young hands, even though it makes no sense at all to him.  </em></p><p>
  <em> “Can I help you?” she asks, and it's performatively polite despite the fact he’s sure she must be as confused as he is; despite the fact he sees her eyes take in the sight of them standing there with the same lightly panicked perplexion he had himself.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Constable,” the Commissioner instructs, nothing but a mumble and gentle nod and no kind of acknowledgement of her question.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Sir?” is the only response Jack can manage when the young lad moves, but Phryne places a hand to his arm, a reassuring silencer, and squares the men down herself.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I take it from the accessories Constable Wilson here is sporting that you’re planning to arrest me for something, Commissioner Marks?” Her voice is dangerously stable, clear and sharp and totally absent of the panic he’d seen flicker in her when she’d first turned to face them.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wilson, for his part, hesitates where he stands, throwing an uncertain look back to his superior.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The Commissioner clears his throat, squares himself up again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack had always been under the impression he’d rather liked her, and he can see the signs of a man desperately trying not to allow himself to be swayed.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He’s familiar enough with the sensation.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Phryne Fisher,” Marks starts again. “You are under arrest for the murder of Geraldine Wilders. Cuff her, Constable.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And shock seems to briefly overcome both of them.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Long enough, still, that the metal is already closing around her wrists before she seems to be able to move herself to speech.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What?” she demands, and Jack’s own mind echoes. His own mouth is open, but he cannot seem to find words yet.  </em>
</p><p><em> He wonders, vaguely, if he is in fact lost in some sort of nightmare </em> – <em> if he might rouse from it soon to the warmth of his bed and the peace of a reality not quite as stark as this one.  </em></p><p>
  <em> He does not.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Who?” Phryne’s voice rings clearly again as she shrugs off the hold of the hands that try to guide her away from him. “I don’t even know a Geraldine Wilders, how on earth could I have killed her?” </em>
</p><p><em> Jack feels his silence heavily on his own tongue. He should speak, he tells himself, should intervene somehow </em> – <em> yet he still cannot seem to work out how.  </em></p><p>
  <em> “Your pistol was collected from the crime scene, Miss Fisher, and a witness states they saw you entering the premises shortly before the murder occurred.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Marks, to some kind of credit, manages to make the words sound assured despite the quiet rage with which he’s being stared down. Jack has seen weaker men crumble beneath that gaze. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He’s crumbled beneath it himself before.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “My pistol is still in the house, Commissioner, so I’m perplexed as to how it might also be at your crime scene,” she bites, and he sees the tiny flinch that comes to the Commissioner’s eyes at it.  </em>
</p><p><em> She could ruin him, should she choose to, and Jack sees that thought occur to him </em> – <em> a nagging doubt behind his narrowed pupils.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Jack jumps on it.  </em>
</p><p><em> “Sir, what led you to believe the gun belongs to Miss Fisher? She’s no connection to the victim, you heard her </em> – <em> she doesn’t even know who it is.” </em></p><p>
  <em> The doubt dislodges itself as the man turns to him. All eyes turn to him, in fact, hers included, and Jack feels a sudden and jarring shame that he has been silent this long.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “A constable recognised it, Robinson, and her initials are engraved into the handle.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Well, it must be some kind of mistake,” Jack snaps back. She has been a terrible influence on him when it comes to disrespecting his superiors, but his priorities have long since been rearranged and he knows without having to think on it that he’ll lose his job any day over seeing her hauled away in cuffs right in front of him.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack watches Wilson hesitate again where he’s hovering behind Phryne, quite clearly fighting between her dismissal of his attempt to move her along and the expression on Marks’ face.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Marks clears his throat, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, the discomfort filtering through these tiny cracks in his armour.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Miss Fisher,” he directs the start of his question at Jack, as if he’s building up the nerve to face her. Jack almost doesn’t blame him. “Where is your pistol, at present?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She huffs, pointedly, with an exaggeration that Jack thinks is half for show and half to cover her own nerves; then casts her eyes down to the shackles at her wrists and back again.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Well if you’d be so kind as to ask Constable Wilson to remove these things, I’ll fetch it for you, Commissioner.”   </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The words are delivered almost sweetly enough that they could be a compliment, but they hang in the air with a sour aftertaste she refines with the sharpness of her gaze.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Marks nods towards the constable, and Jack cannot help the slight smirk that lifts his lips at the satisfied face she makes once the metal clanks open again.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’ll just be a moment,” she smiles, blinding and brilliant but with little sincerity. Jack watches her disappear up the garden path and through the door, eyes following the graceful ease with which she moves, the elegant sweep of her figure. He catches himself far too belatedly, turning back to eyes that watch him.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Marks’ face is an odd mask of frustration and pity which Jack wouldn’t mind so much if it weren’t for the situation. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He’s long since come used to people thinking he is a hopeless sap, caught in a web of Phryne’s wealth and beauty and charm and destined for heartache and humiliation. He’s long since stopped caring. Let them think that, he’d decided, let them think whatever they wanted since it would never change the truth.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> This, though, feels different. His superior’s eyes swim with more than just the average pity, they stare back at him with a gaze he himself has used far too often, staring down husbands and wives and lovers whose world is falling from beneath them as they realise the person they love, the person they’ve opened their heart to, had murder lurking inside them.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack pointedly averts his gaze again, back to the door she has just disappeared through, fixing it on the crack left between the door and its jamb.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They wait.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The longer the minutes tick by, however, the more uncomfortable the silence grows.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack’s gaze flickers briefly back to where the constables are exchanging worried glances, Marks glancing impatiently at his watch. They likely think she’s run, Jack muses. He would, in any circumstance but this.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She won’t have run, though, and thus delay can only mean one thing. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack’s eyes flicker back to the doorway, just to see it come true; and he notes it in her eyes long before the emptiness of her fingers. All trace of indignation has fallen from her, and with it seemingly the brightness of her eyes, the colour in her cheeks.  </em>
</p><p><em> She’s nervous, that much is evident </em> – <em> but more than that </em> – <em> Jack can see that she is rattled. Her eyes meet his just as this dawns, and she hovers in the dimness of the doorway, confirming his fears with a minuscule shake of her head.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Jack feels his chest start to tighten.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He watches her take a breath, paint over her nerves with a smile and brush herself down, stepping out of the shadows and back down the path with purpose. He finds it absolutely impossible to remove his eyes from her the entire time.  </em>
</p><p><em> “Well,” she exclaims as she reaches them, seemingly startling the fretting constables where they stand </em> – <em> Wilson still with the cuffs clutched in his fingers as if he’s not sure what else to do with them. “It appears I may have mislaid it, Commissioner.” </em></p><p><em> It’s too high-pitched, too jovial. Even the uniforms </em> – <em> green as they are </em> – <em> seem to narrow their eyes at it.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Jack knows immediately his colleagues will mistake it for a guilt she isn’t carrying, and the tiny wince that comes to her eyes after she's delivered the words tells him Phryne knows it, too.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She does not argue the cuffs this time, only looks to him with another brilliantly false smile. “Inspector, would you be so kind as to fetch my lawyer? It would seem there’s something rather unfortunate afoot here.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack nods, reaches for her arm though he knows he shouldn’t. “We’ll be right behind you.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The smile that tilts her lips then is small but genuine, the first to reach her eyes. “Thank you, Jack.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He can only smile back at her, determination quickening in his stomach to get to the bottom of this misunderstanding before it can get any further out of hand.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> * </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’ve failed you,” he tells her, the declaration choked and watery and soothed only mildly by the cool touch of her fingers on his skin as she tilts his chin up to force his gaze to her own.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Don’t be ridiculous, Jack.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He cannot accept it, though, cannot take her comfort when she is the one facing the gallows and all his years’ experience have yet to prove any usefulness in preventing it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I have,” he insists. “Phryne…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “We’ll find the answer,” she whispers, the words far softer than he feels he deserves, “we always do.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “We’re running out of time.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Then let’s stop wasting it,” she smirks. “Tell me again.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack takes a long breath, his fingers reaching for hers where they’ve come to rest on his cheek and prying them gently away. He squeezes, once, then releases, stepping away from her for no reason other than her proximity makes focusing on the facts that much harder.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She has always had a talent for challenging his objectivity.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “The witness saw you enter the premises at a few minutes past eight in the morning. He remembered the time because he was late for school. He was able to identify you because you’re well known to him.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Paddy,” she confirms, a sigh that doesn’t altogether hide her hurt that it’s the young boy’s words which have condemned her.  </em>
</p><p><em> “He didn’t know why they were asking,” Jack assures. She knows this already, Paddy himself has been to see her, tearful and apologetic, offering to lie </em> – <em> to change his statement </em> – <em> to say he’d made the whole thing up.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Jack had been tempted to take him up on the offer, but Phryne had staunchly refused.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “They have the gun, anyway, Jack,” she’d scolded him. “Someone’s clearly framing me and I won’t put Paddy in harm's way by having him be the one foil their plans. There’ll be an answer that doesn’t involve endangering him. He’s been through enough.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So he’d left it, for now, though he’d told the boy not to go anywhere lest it come down to needing that.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack cannot help but wonder, as he spins through the facts for her for the hundredth time and still finds himself lost for answers, if it hasn’t come down to it already.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “The neighbour heard the gunshot at around quarter past eight, and called the police immediately afterwards.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Whereupon they arrived at the scene to find my gun,” she finishes for him. “And I was firmly asleep in my bed with no one able to vouch that I was there.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There is an odd defeat to the words that causes Jack to look back at her again, brow furrowing as he does.  </em>
</p><p><em> She hasn’t given up </em> – <em> he’s not sure she </em> knows <em> how to give up </em> – <em> but there’s something weary in her that hadn’t been there before. She hasn’t given up, but Jack is starting to fear her fight is waning.  </em></p><p>
  <em> He cannot let that happen.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Are you sure?” he asks, lips moving before he has allowed the thought to really settle, and Phryne frowns back at him.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What do you mean, am I sure? I’m quite sure I’d know who was or wasn’t in my bed, Jack.” The words aren’t quite angry, but they’re decidedly curt. She’s misconstruing him, but he can’t blame her.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The ridiculousness of what he’s thinking isn’t lost on him; the sheer foolhardiness of it.  </em>
</p><p><em> The </em> illegality <em> of it.  </em></p><p>
  <em> He has never once in his life considered perjuring himself, yet he is floundering. He has looked, she has looked, Hugh and Dot and her entire damn household have looked.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They can find no evidence to suggest it wasn’t her.  </em>
</p><p><em> Someone, it’s clear, had impersonated her </em> – <em> had dressed as her to plant the seed of doubt in poor young Paddy’s mind. Yet Paddy’s being there had been pure coincidence, and without knowing who it was who’d donned her garb (or, for that matter, how they’d even come about it</em><em>) there’d been little they could do to prove the theory of an imposter.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Frankly, they have nothing, and rapidly Jack can see no other option lest he resign himself to her being sent to the gallows for this.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And that, he knows, he just cannot do.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Even if it requires breaking the law himself.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>  Jack takes a breath, steadies himself, and looks her in the eye. “I’m asking are you absolutely sure that there wasn’t someone in your bed that night, Phryne,” he says again, quiet and grave, “someone whose reputation you wanted to protect by not having them vouch for you sooner.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He sees it happen on her face, sees realisation dawn slowly in her blue eyes. What he’s saying, what he’s offering, the weight of it.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She lets out a shocked breath of air. “Jack…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He knows what she’ll say, though, and he cannot let her. He interrupts.  </em>
</p><p><em> “Before you say no,” he insists, “just think about it. We have nothing, Phryne, we have no evidence it wasn’t you, or that you were framed. There’s nothing in your favour only a witness statement placing you there and your very personalised gun confirmed as the murder weapon. We have </em> nothing<em>, but I could give you this.” </em></p><p>
  <em> For the longest of moments there is nothing but silence, and she stares him down with shifting emotions; shock, horror, affection.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Then finally, she speaks. “I can’t let you do that, Jack.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And the thin threads of sanity he’s been holding onto these last few days unravel around him.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “For God’s sake, Phryne!” he exclaims, knowing, beneath his frustration, that losing his temper will be fruitless; but he is lost himself, afraid, and all he wants is this over. He can save her, if he does this. He can make it all disappear if she would only let him. “Do you want to hang?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’s a low blow, and he sees it hit, her face turning stony and cold.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Why, yes, Jack, I’m rather excited about the prospect, actually. I hear it’s marvellous fun.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Then let me help you!”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No,” she snaps back, firm and final, though Jack notes suddenly that she seems closer, that somehow they have closed the distance again and her furious gaze is mere inches from his. “You will not perjure yourself for me, Jack.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Why?” he demands, begs. Why must she be so stubborn? “If it saves your life, Phryne, I’ll perjure myself twenty times over.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Phryne shakes her head. “I can’t ask you to do that, Jack.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re not asking,” he replies, “I’m offering.” </em>
</p><p><em> “And I’m saying no,” she insists. “Jack, there’s someone behind this. Someone has orchestrated this whole thing, and for all we know they hoped for this. Maybe the point wasn’t to have me hanged but just to ruin us both. To ruin </em> you<em>. I won’t play into the hands of a lunatic, we’ll find a way around it.” </em></p><p>
  <em> “What if there isn’t a way?” he counters, softer though. “Phryne, what if this is the only way? Surely you can’t be so proud as to commit yourself to a death sentence over letting someone help you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Phryne laughs, a quiet chuckle absent of any sort of humour. “You think this is about pride, Jack?” she asks, eyes sweeping across his face, searching for something her settling expression of disappointment tells him she doesn’t find.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Isn’t it?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> At that she simply turns, disappearing from his space to the furthest corner of her cell before rounding on him again, face unreadable.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’d like to be alone, now,” she whispers, and Jack can only sigh, knowing there’s no use left in arguing. He nods his head, frustrated and exhausted by this whole affair.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Alright.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He stubbornly does not look back at her once the door has been locked behind him.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> * </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Guilty.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The word rings out across the courtroom like the hollow, clanging sound of a bell ringing out a funeral cry through a grey churchyard.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack feels physically sick at it.  </em>
</p><p><em> He refuses to look at her, keeping his eyes planted firmly on the wall instead, fists clenched in rage beside him. Briefly, he considers staying for the sentencing </em> – <em> but he already knows what it will be.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Death by hanging. They’re words he’s heard a hundred times before, yet never have they felt so heavy to him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t need to hear them today.  </em>
</p><p><em> With a sigh, he turns to leave, marching through the doors and down the dull corridors of the courthouse. All he wants, he realises, is to be back at Wardlow </em> – <em> to be with everyone instead of here, alone, with a head full of demons.  </em></p><p>
  <em> “Robinson!” Jack sighs at the sound of his name. He knows the voice, and he wants nothing less than to talk to the Commissioner in this moment, but he can hear footsteps closing behind him, and bargains on the path of least resistance.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Commissioner,” Jack greets him with a grim smile as Marks comes to stand in front of him. “Can I help you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Marks’ expression turns as close to apologetic as Jack thinks he’s ever seen him look, as close to apologetic as he thinks he’s ever seen a high-ranking officer look, in fact.  </em>
</p><p><em> Marks clears his throat. “Listen, Robinson,” he starts, and Jack simply stares him down. He doesn’t feel remotely in the mood to make this conversation easier for him. “It’s nasty business, this,” the man continues, “nasty business. But it’s over now, and I’d like to think we can put the whole unfortunate incident behind us. You’re a good man, Robinson, a good officer </em> – <em> I’d hate to see the force lose you over this unpleasantness.” </em></p><p>
  <em> Jack grinds his jaw. “If you’re asking if I’ll be holding this against you, sir, I’d rather you just come out and say it.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The bluntness of the request seems to startle Marks a little, but he gathers himself quickly, shoulders squaring. “We’ve had a good working relationship before this, Inspector, and trust is essential in our line of work. I’d like to think I can still count on you, despite all this. I’d like to think you’re enough of a professional not to take the whole thing personally.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You were just doing your job, sir, I understand,” Jack replies, as coldly as he can manage without being downright insubordinate. He really would rather this conversation over. “I look forward to continuing to work with you.” </em>
</p><p><em> The Commissioner nods </em> – <em> seemingly more to himself than anything </em> – <em> straightening himself up. “Right, well </em> – <em> good then, very good.” He hesitates for a moment as if wanting to say more, but shakes his head and marches off back the direction from whence he came, and Jack simply sighs, heading once more for the exit to this foul place.  </em></p><p>
  <em> He makes it two steps before he hears his name called again.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Robinson?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He turns, and Marks is looking at him, a furrow between his brows. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yes, sir?”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Would you… would you tell her I’m sorry.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> This, it seems, is about all Jack can take for the day. He takes no pleasure in disrespecting his superiors, but he is all but spent emotionally, and he finds he cannot hold his tongue.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I think, perhaps, you should tell her yourself.” </em>
</p><p>*</p><p>“Jack?”</p><p>He turns, sure he must be hearing things. Seeing things, too, if the sight in front of him is anything to go by.</p><p>Phryne’s smile is oddly tentative, too, which does nothing to help dissuade him from the idea that this is all an illusion. </p><p>“What…” He frowns, clears his throat. “Miss Fisher, what are you doing here?”</p><p>Her hands move to her hips, eyes hardening. </p><p>“You left me hanging, Jack.”</p><p>He raises an eyebrow at her, and she glances briefly behind him, wincing in seeming realisation of her own tactlessness. </p><p>“That may have been a poor choice of words,” she admits, though she folds her arms defensively in front of herself, anyway. “Though the point still stands,” she huffs. </p><p>“What poin-” Jack cuts himself off with a bewildered breath, “Phryne, aren’t you meant to be in <em> England </em>right now?”</p><p>It isn’t that he’d been thrilled at the idea of her being half a world away from him, certainly when he'd just come so close to losing her altogether. Nor that – beneath the utter shock of it – he isn’t elated to see her, two feet in front of him and close enough to touch when he’s hated having her gone so. </p><p>Phryne shrugs, though, looking suddenly and uncharacteristically unsure of herself. </p><p>“I put my father on a ship somewhere in India, he’ll find his way home.”</p><p>Jack blinks. “But, why? I thought you wanted to be out of the country until this was all over?” </p><p>“I did,” she agrees, nods. “I did, but…”</p><p>“But what?”</p><p>“But my father’s a terrible bore,” she offers, and Jack simply stares her down, unconvinced. </p><p>She sighs. “Look, Jack, when we caught her… when I was released, all I wanted was to get away – and my father needed a push to go home – so in the moment it all made perfect sense to me. This was the last place I wanted to be... until I left, and I realised it was where I needed to be.”</p><p>There’s something dangerously sincere in her eyes as she says it, and Jack feels his heartbeat quicken at the sight of it. </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Phryne lets out a soft chuckle. “Because you left me hanging, Jack.” </p><p>“You really need to stop phrasing it like that.”</p><p>She huffs again. “Well could we leave, then? I’ve really no desire to spend another moment in here.”</p><p>Jack casts a glance back to where the curtain has now been drawn, hiding the scene of punishment behind them, and grimaces. </p><p>“That makes two of us.” He nods, “Shall we?”</p><p>A slightly sadistic part of him almost wants to stay longer, to oversee the whole process right to the woman being put in the ground – but either way the deed is done – and it likely wouldn’t help him sleep any better seeing every painful part of the process they’d managed to save Phryne from. Not knowing how close it had come. </p><p>Some things are perhaps better left behind a curtain, he thinks. </p><p>Phryne stays silent until they’ve left the gaol, stepping out into the bright street and taking a moment to stare at it before she finally speaks again.</p><p>“I’m not going to say it again, Jack,” </p><p>“Well, it was a highly inappropriate comment,” he teases, and she turns to him with a glare. </p><p>“More just unfortunate timing,” she parries, and Jack raises an eyebrow. </p><p>“If you say so.”</p><p>“I do.”</p><p>“Phryne,” Jack sighs, finding himself increasingly confused with this. “Why did you come back?”</p><p>“Because you didn’t answer!” she exclaims, seemingly losing a patience he hadn't known she'd been holding, and Jack finds himself startling at it. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I asked you to come after me, Jack, and you didn’t answer. You made me wait – barely a word – and much as I didn’t want to be here to see this, I needed an answer more.”</p><p>“I…” he starts, but finds himself still struggling for words. “I… I was just giving you time.”</p><p>“Time?” Phryne snorts. “Jack, didn’t this entire case show us that time is something we should both stop wasting?”</p><p>“I’ve never noticed you wasting much time, Miss Fisher,” he counters, knowing he shouldn’t, knowing that he should surrender to the seriousness of the conversation she clearly wants to have, but unable to stop himself.</p><p>He is reeling, stunned, still, by her very presence; and emotionally raw from this whole damn affair. </p><p>Much as he’d tried to stop it, his mind has insisted on burdening him with constant images of how today might have gone if they’d not finally managed to solve this case; if they had not found the woman truly responsible and cleared Phryne’s name of wrongdoing. </p><p>All through the trial he had been unable to stop himself picturing it being her, fretting over how very nearly it <em>had</em> been her. Much as he’s missed her, he’d been glad at the time that she hadn’t been there for it, if only because he’s not sure he’d have been able to look her in the eye for fear of breaking. </p><p>“I know you’re picturing it being me,” her voice breaks through his musings once more, and Jack looks up to meet Phryne’s gaze. It’s softer than he might expect – still laced with frustration – but there’s a sympathetic tilt to her smile, and she takes a step towards him, closing the distance until their proximity is completely inappropriate for the busy street. </p><p>Jack finds he doesn’t altogether care.</p><p>He cannot quite shake the image, though, cannot ignore the heartache he is feeling over how very wrong this had all nearly gone. </p><p>“It almost was,” he whispers, because he doesn’t know what else he can say. </p><p>“I know,” she breathes, and then her hands are on his chest, her blue eyes intense on his, keeping him captive in her gaze. “But it wasn’t, Jack, it wasn’t… and you owe me an answer.”</p><p>“I didn’t know you were asking a question.”</p><p>Phryne rolls her eyes. “Well what did you think it was?”</p><p>Jack lets out a soft chuckle, allowing himself the small luxury of relaxing under her touch. “An instruction?”</p><p>Her lips lift up into a smirk, eyes glittering. “And were you planning to follow it?”</p><p>He had felt, throughout the entirety of this case, that he had let her down. Even in the end it had been her who’d worked it out – oh, he’d helped, of course – but it had been the workings of her own sharp mind that had saved her from the gallows, and Jack had spent the majority of that time feeling useless as he searched for ways to help, something to give. Even in the aftermath, amongst the relief that she was free, that guilt had still lingered. He'd been letting himself get so lost to it, in fact, that he'd almost thought her parting words a joke. </p><p>Evidently, they had been far from it – and finally, it seems, he has something he can give her. He can give her this, give her the truth he’s been holding in so long – the truth it appears she came back just to hear from him. </p><p>“Yes,” Jack tells her, earnest and sure, eyes fixed on hers. “Phryne, of course I would have come after you, if you wanted me to. Where else would I possibly want to go?”</p><p>Her smile widens, blooming across her face in both delight, and something that looks almost like relief. For a long moment she simply stares at him, open and joyous, and then the twinkle returns to her eye – a twinkle that tells him she’s about to tease him over something. </p><p>“So,” she hums, “say I were to ask you again?”</p><p>“To come after you?”</p><p>Phryne nods. “Would you promise not to leave me hanging?” </p><p>Jack reaches up to where her fingers are still resting against his lapels, lacing his hand with one of hers and bringing it up, pressing a gentle kiss to the backs of her knuckles before pulling it back down to rest against his heart. </p><p>“I promise," he vows. "I promise you that if there’s one thing I couldn’t bear in this world, Phryne Fisher,” he tells her, with all the sincerity he can, all the relief and the joy and the love he can inject into these few words, “it’s letting you hang.”</p>
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